


Customary

by Fudgyokra



Category: Aquaman (Comics)
Genre: Desperation, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Groping, Humor, Intersex, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oviposition, POV Alternating, Porn, Seahorse Atlanteans, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22525414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: “The information we’re going to receive is mission-critical, Robin. Think of it as reconnaissance, of a sort.”“No,” Dick begins, accepting the breathing device Arthur had gifted them from Bruce’s outstretched hand, “it’s a dinner party. We’re going to betourists.”
Relationships: Arthur Curry/Garth (DCU), Garth (DCU)/Dick Grayson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	Customary

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to lacemonster for the breeding harem idea, which I snatched like the greedy little goblin I am.
> 
> Although I began this with oviposition in mind, most of the porn is actually Dick and Garth fooling around, so the bit with Arthur accidentally wound up being smaller than what I'd intended. I like how this turned out, anyway!

“You’re a liar, B. You know that?”

Dick can’t keep the complaints at bay, and he’s in no mood to laugh about the pun, either, as the two of them stand at the edge of the water preparing for a submarine dive to Atlantis.

Bruce looks close to sighing but maintains composure behind the cowl. Dick can at least take pleasure in the tightening muscles around his mouth. “The information we’re going to receive is mission-critical, Robin. Think of it as reconnaissance, of a sort.”

“No,” Dick begins, accepting the breathing device Arthur had gifted them from Bruce’s outstretched hand, “it’s a dinner party. We’re going to be _tourists._ ”

Bruce tugs his own device over his mouth. It makes his next words tinny, which would be hilarious if Dick were in higher spirits. “Well then, chum,” he says, like he’s determined to wring at least one fish-pun-inspired laugh out of his protégé, “do your best to get immersed in the culture. We’ll be there all night.”

While they zip up their specialized coveralls, Dick manages one more petty complaint before they brave the unforgiving dreariness of the sub. “You said I didn’t have to attend any more fancy events this week.” He pauses, then repeats in matter-of-fact fashion his earlier sentiment: “That makes you a liar.”

Bruce finally succumbs to the sigh wanting out. Dick, for his part, maintains his smugness well into the oceanic depths.

Although he doesn’t pay attention to most of the introductions, he at least remembers to bow when presented with the visages of king, queen, and court. They’ve met before, of course, so Dick doesn’t understand why this whole ordeal has to feel so diplomatic, but it’s a thought that gets put on the back burner, as Bruce insists focus is of the utmost importance.

None of it feels important. It’s more jovial than anything, even considering the flood of dignitaries that walk past them on their way to the long stretch of dining table Dick is sure must be twice the length of the Batmobile. Arthur and Mera sit at the head with Dick and Bruce nearby, and the majority of chairs have already been filled by the time they get there. Dick’s hopeful that means he’ll get to sleep soon, because the day of activity he has weathered through does not mingle well with the insane amount of swimming that traversing Atlantis entails. Already, he can feel a yawn building, which he dutifully tamps down.

The final party to join their table wakes him up plenty.

His double-take must have given him a leg up on Bruce when it came to schooling his expression, because, while Dick maintains composure despite a bit of stiffening, Bruce overtly grimaces. It takes him a second longer than usual to amend. Thinly-veiled horror is not exactly a flattering way to react to someone’s arrival, even when that someone happens to be a very pregnant young boy. He looks to be about Dick’s age—is definitely Dick’s size, which is to say, not very large—and yet cradles an extended belly with one arm as he sits daintily down on the chair right beside him.

Awkward silence. Arthur and Mera must have caught Bruce’s expression. Dick slips into his carefully crafted childish behavior like a favorite suit and takes the brunt of the man’s damage by asking, loudly, “Is he…pregnant?”

Arthur’s sideways smile is equal parts grateful and meek. “Yes. As a matter of fact, he is.”

“He’s far from the only one,” Mera adds, as if to reassure them that it’s normal behavior. As it stands, all the new information does is make Bruce turn whiter. “We have a group of dedicated young lads who take it as a great honor to bear royal children.”

Bruce’s complexion is downright ghostly now. “Royal,” he deadpans, watching Arthur rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “They’re yours?”

“Only the ones this one carries,” Arthur answers, brightening almost imperceptibly. Dick can sense it, anyway, especially when the king reaches over and rests a fond hand on the kid’s shoulder. “This is Garth. He’s an exceptional boy, and he’ll be doing the duty of giving birth to my and Mera’s first clutch, if you can believe it. Future princes and princesses of Atlantis.”

Beside him, Garth beams. “It can hardly be called a duty, your highness.” Then, to Dick’s surprise, he leans toward him and whispers, with an unnervingly childlike giggle preceding, “I practically had to beg him! I was only supposed to be his ward, not part of his harem. Imagine how excited I was to find out he liked me enough to impregnate.”

Bruce isn’t the only one blanching now. Shocked and confused, Dick mumbles back, “How did it happen? The…pregnancy.”

Garth smiles, and once Dick regains some of his sense, he can see that the boy _is_ awfully attractive. Soft and sweet-looking, with dimpled cheeks and a plush mouth. Above that, purple eyes glittering with mischief, trained right on Dick with a mesmerizing capability well beyond his years. “First, the queen lays her eggs inside”—Oh, god, Dick thinks—“and then His Highness fertilizes them.” Oh, god: the sequel.

Dick begins unintentionally creating a picture in his head of this event, and can’t stop from squirming a bit in his seat at the unexpected sensation it gives him. It’s not disgust, that’s for sure. His face is more red than white now. “That’s cool. I think.”

“Yes,” Garth says, grinning with a mouthful of shark-like teeth, “very cool.”

Since Bruce looks too deliberative to speak, Dick takes it upon himself to empty his ignorance into the silence. “Why are they all boys, though? The, um, helpers.” Bruce doesn’t even grunt disapprovingly, a sure sign he is wondering the same thing.

Mera tackles that front with ease. “As for the matter of sex, Atlanteans share similar DNA with seahorses, meaning that males are the ones to endure pregnancy and give birth.” The twinkle in her eye gives away her next words, and even if she’s perfectly civil, Dick feels somewhat embarrassed for asking if only due to her professional tone. “But I suppose your question is about their ages.”

Arthur clears his throat and takes over from there, with a slight tinge to his cheeks that suggests to Dick something a tad deeper in attachment than the antithetically scientific Mera is explaining. “Since we and our court are often too busy—”

“And entrenched in highly stressful situations,” Mera adds.

“And that, yes. Well, we require someone else to deliver our young in our stead. Younger males are perfect because pregnancy offers a host of problems to older males, such as intense aggression. For an entity in power to wield swings in emotion like that is quite dangerous.”

“Are you saying,” Dick begins carefully, scratching his head, “boys don’t have the mood swings that men do?”

“Robin,” Bruce says, officially stepping in to keep the air civil, “I believe that’s enough.”

“It’s no trouble,” Arthur assures them, smiling like he means it. Beside Dick, Garth is all but batting his lashes at the man from across the seats. Curious. “But, to answer your question, yes. It is a matter of preservation and of honoring history.”

Bruce’s mouth twists like he doesn’t enjoy the answer, so Dick makes a long _mmhm_ sound as if he can’t quite wrap his head around the idea. It diverts any of Arthur and Mera’s potential ire, which is a talent Dick is particularly good at harnessing. As expected, Bruce releases a nearly-imperceptible sigh of relief beside him.

On his other flank, Garth leans in to whisper in his ear, “I can tell you all about it later.” The tone is unmistakably flirtatious, and with the delirious high of such a strange dinner plaguing him, Dick can only swallow hard and let his face burn as he stares down at his plate.

“Yeah,” he agrees, hoping Bruce won’t hear, “sounds like a plan.”

* * *

Robin is downright adorable. Any time Garth so much as hints at his and Arthur’s relationship, the kid turns pinker than coral. Enjoying the view, he spends the better half of the dinner incontestably flirting with the Boy Wonder, halfway out of boredom, halfway out of attraction. The strange thing is, despite Robin’s admittedly good looks, he isn’t Garth’s type,and yet the feeling deep in his blood is the same intense lust he gets around someone as masculine and regal as Arthur (although no one comes close to his king.)

Only well into the night, once Garth retires to his chambers and finds himself squirming through a fitful sleep, does he realize it’s his hormones driving him wild. He awakens with his sheets soaked after little more than an hour of tossing and turning, the last dredges of a particularly lewd dream clinging to his consciousness.

One errant movement calls attention to his swollen cock, rubbing against the underside of his blanket while he instinctively ruts upward in search of friction. Leaking and desperate is an annoying way to wake up, he finds. This isn’t the first time, but it _is_ the first time without Arthur nearby to solve the problem. Now that he’s too busy relaying mission details to that surly Batman figure, he doesn’t have the time to come indulge Garth, who is so spoiled by his mentor’s continued affections that he finds himself pouting at the absence.

Irritated, he slinks out of bed and down the hallway, toward Robin’s temporary quarters. Garth had ushered him there by command once an argument with Batman regarding his presence in the throne room hadn’t gone Robin’s way, and, if he were lucky, the boy would still be there, willing (like he is in Garth’s muddled daydream) to lend a helping hand, as sidekicks do.

They had planned to meet up, anyway, once their mentors had gone to bed, so perhaps Robin was just as riled up as Garth. It’s wishful thinking, considering his current level of hormonal output, but the thought still sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

Quietly, he pushes the door to the bedroom open with one hand.

Robin is inside pacing, and the second he hears the squeak of a hinge, he turns wild eyes on Garth. “Oh,” he breathes out, “it’s you.”

“Expecting Batman?” Garth teases, watching gleefully as Robin reddens and rolls his eyes, gesturing him over to cover his own startle. Mid-wave, he flicks his gaze down to the obvious shape of the bulge between Garth’s thin legs and turns even redder.

“Hey, do you think you could…answer some questions for me?” Robin speaks as if he’s mentally wheeling through a list of sentence fragments, hoping to piece together the least offensive question as he slugs through the process.

Garth isn’t in the mood for questions. He gingerly shuts the door, sporting a flush of his own as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, each movement providing crackles of sensation when the friction of his sleep shorts rubbing him winds his anticipation even higher. “Sure,” he says anyway. He is the court’s token sweetheart, according to Arthur and Mera. He doesn’t know any other way to be.

To Robin’s credit, even though his own soft little shorts don’t do much to hide the interested twitch beneath them, he, too, focuses on the conversation. “You and Aquaman seem awfully close.” No beating around the bush for this kid, Garth thinks. “Closer than your average hero-sidekick duo, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, yeah.” At first, he plans to be matter-of-fact about it, then changes course when a wicked thought pops into his head. Biting coyly on his lip, he approaches the bed where Robin has only just sat, watching as he stiffens before Garth even lowers himself beside him. Their thighs press against one other, and each inch of skin in contact with his own is so warm and smooth that he feels a stirring between his legs at the mere hint of it. With a conspiratorial grin, he cups his hands around the boy’s ear and whispers through them, “We’re lovers.”

Robin swallows thickly, shuffling in his spot before he tilts his face toward Garth’s just enough to dislodge his hands. They are painfully close to brushing lips with each parting that allows words through. “So, you two kiss and stuff?”

Garth’s reply is both a tease and an agreement, tinted with inescapable glee. “And stuff.”

“Not just for…” Robin looks embarrassed to have to say it, but to his credit doesn’t flounder for long. “Breeding?”

“Nope. We do it because it’s fun. He takes really good care of me.” Garth is all but squirming now, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. Without thinking, he shoves a palm in his lap, pressing with the heel of his hand to ease a small bit of tension. When he keens, Robin’s pupils grow large.

“How does he do that? Take care of you, I mean.” His words sound as if they’ll shake apart at the edges with nerves, but sheer willpower seems to hold them together long enough for him to suggest precisely what Garth’s been waiting to hear: “Maybe I can help.”

The actual agreement gets lost in a needy whine, but Robin seems to get the picture, anyway. Tentatively, he replaces the hand in Garth’s lap with his own, watching his thighs part automatically to allow the stimulation. Just the gentle strokes through the pajamas is enough to make his eyes water, and from there it’s like a green light for all the sensations he’s been holding back all evening to spill out of him at once.

He whines again, peering down with a bright red face as he soaks through the cloth with his slick. It seems to surprise Robin, the poor naive bird, because he blinks wide eyes and asks, “Did you just…from that?”

“No,” Garth manages to squeak, sounding waterier with every word, “I’m going to—the eggs are coming.”

Robin’s eyes widen further. “Does it hurt?”

“ _No,_ ” he repeats, desperately. “Atlantean birth doesn’t hurt, it”—he shudders, rocking his hips upward into Robin’s palm, encouraging him to keep going—“feels really, _really_ good.”

Appearing to be in awe of the knowledge, Robin pokes his finger into the bottom of Garth’s wet shorts and tugs them aside, marveling at the bits he finds there. Garth feels his cock throb from the attention, then beneath it, the hot swell of his slit glistening in the too-cool air. He thinks about asking Robin to touch him there, but then imagines it wouldn’t be very dignified of him and so purses his lips to stifle his whimpers.

“Is it okay if I touch?” Like a little mind-reader, Garth thinks. He nods a tad too vigorously, already canting his hips further toward the curious reach of Robin’s fingers. Two of them dip inside, only to the first knuckle, and already he tightens around them, wanting to urge them deeper. In the pit of his stomach, there’s a flutter of muscles that warn him the first of his clutch is soon to arrive.

For a moment, he doesn’t recognize the high-pitched plea ringing out as his own voice. Sensations converge on him when Robin’s fingers slide all the way in with no friction and curl pleasantly against his slick walls. His own hands grab clumsily at his shorts, shoving the waistband down enough to expose the head of his cock as well. He’s more experienced with his own touch, but even the usual dance of fingers he employs to rile himself up does nothing against the intense desire for _help_ that springs up in his prone form.

Right as he thinks to make Robin go get Arthur, another noise fights its way out of him when the kid’s fingers push his own aside and rub the mess of pre-cum around in tight circles over swollen flesh. He doesn’t know what words come out of his mouth next, but he knows instinctively he’s begging to be primed for the laying process: Stretched open and assisted through his haze by a grounding force. His stomach still quivers, places inside of him lighting up with sparks so incredible he can’t stop the sounds he’s making, even if he wanted to.

His hand shoots out and gropes tactlessly at the outline of Robin’s cock through his shorts, feeling more than seeing the way the kid jumps. Then, a second later, a soft moan while he fishes himself out and lets Garth take him properly in his fist. Parts of his mind blank, his primary driving force instinct. He wants that _inside_ him, wants it to satisfy the craving that fingers simply don’t, even if he still flexes tightly around them.

Robin’s pink-faced and focused, rutting into the proffered fist and leaning over in a somewhat awkward bend to maintain the way he plays with Garth’s sensitive, begging body.

Then, abruptly, the kid pulls away with a gasp. Garth doesn’t know why at first, but then he hears the delicate mellow of Arthur’s tone as he says something he only halfway catches, beginning with the words, “Oh, dear.” His vision swims for a few seconds when large hands brush over his feverish flesh and covers him before lifting him up as if he weighed nothing. Past the din of his heartbeat in his ears, he can parse that Arthur is apologizing for being late, thanking Dick for his help watching over Garth.

Robin has done a lot more than watch, of course, and his mortified expression tells as much, but Arthur doesn’t waste time admonishing him and instead carries his ward to proper nesting grounds.

Blearily, Garth’s head tips back against Arthur’s arm, and he can just barely make out the shape of Robin creeping stealthily after them to watch the proceedings. He grins, pleased by the audience. He’d do a good job on his first clutch, show the curious little bird exactly how happy he is to be of help to his king.

Garth sits on a pillow placed between Arthur’s thighs, his own calves held splayed by the considerably larger ones propped between them. He is comfortable, protected. When he can’t figure out what to do with his hands, Arthur calmly pulls them away and uses his own to tease through the trickle of slick Garth is producing.

Time is a crawl until each time he reaches orgasm from those fingers, over and over and over again. When Arthur hooks them inside and spreads Garth open for his first egg, he cums with a shriek, unable to clench down, and Arthur soothes his tremors with whispered words of encouragement. It makes the next one that much better, when a deft hand strokes up and down Garth’s cock and makes him twist and writhe until he cums again, this time tightening around the egg he squeezes through, feeling perfectly full with it, all while Arthur’s mouth kisses away his overstimulated tears.

They come one by one: Soft, gelatinous orbs with translucent skins that press against all the right places inside him to light every nerve on fire. Not even halfway done, he is covered in sweat and cum and tears, feeling impossibly dirty but not at all unloved as Arthur assists him through each one.

“Just because Atlantean birth is not painful does not mean it isn’t taxing,” he says, but Garth is too out of it to pay any mind to whom he might have been speaking. Perhaps Robin has been noticed, after all. It may have even been Mera or Batman, or even just words meant to reassure Garth himself, but he does not know or care. All he knows is pure electricity as he cums again, dry this time, having lost track of whether this is the fourth or the fifth or the sixth time. He arches away from the intense sensation, giving a wavering keen that Arthur quells with hushed murmurs into his hair.

Hours later, he is finally finished, a full clutch lying glistening between his legs, new fries developing inside each one.

It was exhausting, but he feels a hot stripe of pride along the ridges of his spine when Arthur praises him for a job well done and sinks three fingers into his raw hole to the tune of Garth’s worn-out moan. The fingers pump in and out of him for an indeterminate number of minutes, but, sure enough, he finds himself tightening all over, bearing down on the intrusion while he rocks his hips frantically through one more orgasm, feeling completely and utterly drained of all energy afterward.

He collapses back against Arthur’s chest, lashes fluttering with the effort of fighting sleep.

“It’s all right, little one,” he’s promised. The deep, rumbling voice assuages him as Arthur wipes him down in the royal tub and then carries him to bed dressed in a fresh set of sleepwear.

Exhaustion has taken him a while ago, but he still wraps feeble arms around Arthur’s neck and pulls him down to mouth clumsily at him. With a chuckle, Arthur fixes his fingers beneath Garth’s chin and guides him through a proper kiss before leaving him to sleep away the fatigue of a successful birth.

* * *

The submarine ride back to the surface is spent largely in silence. In spite of how Bruce keeps flicking his concerned gaze back and forth between him and the seemingly endless sea stretching past the glass shield, Dick can’t muster the ability to speak while he is lost in such inconveniently-timed thoughts.

No matter what he does, he can’t push away the memory of how Garth looked, spread out and vulnerable between Aquaman’s powerful thighs, shuddering and jerking and moaning his way through all that.

Arthur had caught him, of course, but was surprisingly patient with him. He explained the state of things while so fondly holding and fiddling with Garth, whose sweet cries of ecstasy echoed throughout the room in a way that made Dick’s pulse skitter. He’s hard again just imagining it, and he is abundantly grateful for his cup concealing as much from Bruce’s prying eyes.

Still, the moment the man speaks to him, he jumps in his seat and flushes. “What’s the matter, Robin? You’ve been spaced out for a while now.”

“It’s nothing,” Dick answers automatically, even if his voice is more tense than it should be. He still can’t quit picturing the swell of those wobbly, gelatinous-looking eggs as they came out, each of them gingerly deposited in a pile by Arthur, who would then rub his fingertips through the abundant mess of slick between Garth’s legs, tugging with teasing lightness at his rim. Until Garth shook with it, mouth open, eyes pinched closed and brows furrowed every time.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks, almost knowingly.

Dick hunkers down and tries to hide his burning face against his knees. “I’m sure,” he says. “Just a strange trip, is all.”


End file.
